


The Life of Things

by aderyn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, evidence of what, not a crime scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:56:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn/pseuds/aderyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been raining for three days. It's been raining for three days and all the evidence is washed away. It's been raining for three days and Sherlock is vexed and nail-bitingly bored.</p>
<p>There's not much of a view. Is there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Life of Things

They come up through the flooded pastureland, through the last brush of winter, to be denied.

It's been raining for three days. It's been raining for three days and all the evidence is washed away. It's been raining for three days and Sherlock is vexed and nail-bitingly bored.  
  
“Wasn't much chance we'd find more,” John says as Sherlock scrutinises sheep-printed mud, gnaws by turns his finger and thumb.  
  
“Damn it,” he says.  
  
“Don’t,” says John. There’s blood there, at the cuticle, where he’s been worrying.  
  
They came up on the 8:58 with the city sluicing off their shoulders and the skyline washed clean and the burnt crusts of a Baker Street breakfast still scattered minutely in their clothes.  
  
Here they are in the grey blades, Sherlock nipping at a sedimentary pulse; you’d think he cared only for the narrowed eyes of crime, the murder or not of a London boy, the cut throat of a mudstoned field not a month from the Swaledale and the carnivorous butterwort.

“Nope,” John says, nose centimetres from silt, from Sherlock’s.

  _With a microscope maybe. With you.  
_  
When Sherlock takes his hands in his shredded fingers it’s like a long blink.  
  
 _I can't solve what's not here._

_You can._  
  
That distant tower, full of wind, strains up towards another point of view—singular, lovely, horizon blue.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from William Wordsworth.
> 
> "These beauteous forms,  
> Through a long absence, have not been to me  
> As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:  
> But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din  
> Of towns and cities, I have owed to them  
> In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,  
> Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart… 
> 
> While with an eye made quiet by the power  
> Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,  
> We see into the life of things.—William Wordsworth, “Tintern Abbey”
> 
>  
> 
> [The Lake District](http://stockphototops.blogspot.com/2012/07/lake-district-uk.html)  
> [Grasmere Church](http://www.old-picture.com/europe/District-Grasmere-Church-England.htm)


End file.
